Fiddleheads
by MistOnBirchLeaf
Summary: Short stories and scenes from the viewpoints of several of the Final Fantasy characters.
1. Fern Fronds

Yuffie leans over and plucks a green, soft, fuzzy frond. "What _exactly_ are these things?" I lean over and inspect it briefly.

"A fiddlehead," I reply.

"This is some sort of _fern_, Vinny."

"And I am a botanist, no?" I chuckle. She sticks out her tongue, flicking the frond at my face.

I hasten to explain: "Young fern fronds are called fiddleheads due to the fact that they curl up until they are ready to leaf out."

She looks at me and giggles.

"You're a fiddlehead, Vinny."

I blink, perplexed. As she dances off to snatch a wild sunflower from the meadow's edge, I comprehend her reference. A sheepish grin covers my face, hidden by my cloak. _I love you too, Yuffie._


	2. Acacia

Yuffie is sniffing. In puzzlement, I glance over at her streaming eyes and drippy nose.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"No, I'b dot awight, Viddy. I'b allergic to acacia polled." I raise my eyebrows.

"Cad I use your cloak to wipe by eyes?" she sniffles.

I hold out a tattered corner and she rubs her eyes. "Thags," she mumbles after returning my cloak.

I nod. "Only six more miles of acacia grove, Yuffie," I promise. She sneezes violently and my ungauntletted arm somehow ends up resting around her slender shoulders.


	3. Mush and Nonsense

_ Vincent is holding his hand out to me and I am reaching for it eagerly since my long, cumbersome skirt is threatening to strangle my ankles as I make my way out of the trolley. His deep, friendly eyes search my own and I can feel a blush cross my face..._

Alas, that is an uncomfortable memory of Lucrecia-the-scientist-Crescent. And it is my memory as well, sentimentality be blasted.

Since I have had the pleasure of meeting the members of AVALANCHE, I have been particularly close to Yuffie, of all people.

Her bubbly enthusiasm is a direct contrast to my stoic facade of monotone indifference; she calls it my "scare-people-away-glare" or my "creepy-to-the-nth-degree-glare."

Thank-you, Yuffie. I beg to differentiate the concepts of 'expressionless face' and 'expressionless heart.'

Lucrecia's memories cause me to, at times, regard Vincent Valentine as...how does Yuffie express it?—ah— as "a woman perceives a drop-dead-steamin'-hot hunk of man."

Yes. That is _Yuffie's_ opinion. My feelings on the opposite gender are more reserved.

At first, I had thought that Yuffie disliked me because I rarely spoke and showed little enthusiasm for her crazy pranks and devious plans on dyeing Vincent's hair _electric blue. _

I soon realized that she was _jealous_ of my camaraderie with Vincent.

Yes, plotting compass-points and re-basing references on a detailed grid of a dilapidated gang town induces tremendous bonding. (I suppose that you could call that sarcasm, yes?)

Yuffie envies my knowledge of Lucrecia and her and Vincent's former relationship back in his old Turk days. She tries her best to be kind and friendly to me, knowing that I never wanted to bear Lucrecia's memories within my head.

_ Vincent's serious eyes were alight with tender warmth as he plucked a mariposa lily from the _

_flowerbed..._

I prefer to dwell on the present times. My past as a Tsviet was and is dark and convoluted; my memories of Vincent as observed thought _her_ besotted eyes...mush and nonsense. The present is the most bearable for myself.

"But does he like any colors besides red and black?" Yuffie asks me as we sit in her kitchen, shelling peas. I shrug. "Deep blue, possibly," I state.

_ My dress was a deep royal blue in a simple, strapless style, reaching my knees, decorated with a broad black leather belt. My hair was pulled back loosely into a golden-brown bun. His eyes leaped to mine as he smiled in appreciation of the dress that he liked best to see me wear. It was our favorite dress..._

I prim up my mouth in annoyance at the memory. I reach for another pea pod. Yuffie sighs.

"Sometimes I hope that he will notice me as, well, you know, a _grown-up_, as a _woman._" Her eyes are unusually solemn as she empties the empty pods into the trash bin. Her face is flushed pink.

I, for one, know little of the matters of the heart. I know that Lucrecia fell for Hojo (nasty) and lost Vincent. Vincent fell for Lucrecia and lost his heart. Yuffie is his heart, or will be, when he wakes up and opens his eyes.

Yuffie's deep brown eyes are mysterious and pensive. I lean over and tap her shoulder lightly.

"His favorite scents are the dewdrops upon the spring narcissi and the spray of citrus oil from a crushed tangerine. And," I smile encouragingly, "he adores your smile."

Her eyes brighten and she hugs me.


	4. Rush

"CID!" I bellowed. He came tripping downstairs with a comb in one hand and a half-knotted tie in the other.

"Blast it, woman, can't you see that I'm trying to comb my fur and strangle my neck at the same time?"

I tsk-tsk through gritted teeth. "You're going to be late, dear. Let me have at your tie."

He hands the blue thing to me, fuming about no breakfast and a cigarette shortage. (Hallelujah! No more cheap-filtered stinkin' rolls of cheap stinkin' paper! At least for now.)

I finish adjusting his tie. He gives me a kiss and a couple of bristle-marks to boot. (I thought that he would have at least shaved for this interview!)

"Heck, what would I do without ya', Shera? Could ya' have a steak ready around nine? And don't char the edges! I'll be back late." He runs his almost-toothless comb through his hair once more.

"Yes, Sir," I chuckle, wincing a bit at the "no-charred-steak" jab. _My _ steak is _never _charred. Have you seen _his_ steak? The last time...

"And don't 'Sir' me! You're my damn wife now so get it damn straight!" he growls again, grabbing my chin and forcing my head to wobble in an unsteady nod. "Right," he continues, "see you later. Love you!"

"Love you too, Cid," I murmur, grinning ear to ear.

"Yer socks aren't matching," he calls over his shoulder as he heads out the door.

Grrrrrr.


	5. Celebratory Measures

"Ugh—who uses a coffin to _sleep_ in?" I muse to myself as I descend noble and lonely stairs to The Basement. The Basement of Dooooom.

I mean, sure, it's a _safe _haven_, _as in, no one's likely to blow it up on a whim, and sure, it's insulated, but what about the padding? One will have a heckofabackache after thirty years in that thing!

One, as in, a certain vampire fellow who never smiles or talks or eats or drinks or sings or dances...alright, so he _talks._ And I bet he has to eat _sometime_. And _drink_, for that matter, haha. _(My, my, don't you look good enough to eat—uh, what say we go out for a quick __bite__?)_

Yeppers, that's my cue to begin the laundry list of vampire jokes and fang jokes and blood-type jokes **O** snap! **B** positive, **O**-k? It's all good? **A**-ok! (Can I stop now?)

I skip over to the large coffin—hey, don't they make custom orders for tall people?—and knock on the wood. _Hehe, it isn't dusty—at least he's been keeping busy, or at least _looking_ alive! Vamps..._

"Good morning, Sunshine!" I sing-song out cheerily. I hear a groan muffled by the aged wood.

Creeeaaak...*creepy music*...the coffin lid swings open...and out jumps— AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

* * *

><p>My good buddy climbs out of his cozy bunker.<p>

"Hiya, Buddy! Guess what today is?" My grin is wrapped clear around my face—I bet the corners of my mouth have met by now! (Is that physically possible? OHMYGOODNESSGRACIOUSMEOHMY if it is I _**so **_have to tell Cid that!)

Beautiful, fiery, amazing eyes—I mean, *cough, cough* _tired and droopy_ eyes meet mine. "Yuffie, it's two fifteen and a half in the morning."

Gasp. Vincent has a watch? He chuckles at my puzzlement. (Yes! He _chuckled_!) "There's a grandfather clock behind you, Yuffie." I turn. Oh, that dusty thing. On second thought, isn't _everything_ dusty in this mansion? Anyway.

"And?" I chirp. "We, as in, we-the-awesome-butt-kicking-world-saving-members-of-A-V-A-L-A-N-C-H-E are going to have celebration party! Yeah, remember how we were all too tired to party last night after fighting monsters and finishing off them three remnants and cleaning up the mess later on? Today we're going to party!" (Come on, we deserve it!)

Vincent sighs. "When?" "Today, Vince. Of course today," I enunciate, waving my hands around to demonstrate the wonderfulness of party fun.

"No, I mean, what time? AM, PM?" he asks, waving his own arms around in a mimicry of mine.

(At that point I lost my eyeballs—and spent the next two seconds scrabbling around on the floor for them—Vinny just did _hula-hands!_ Another gasp.)

"Er, yeah, well, seven tonight," I say, twirling in a circle and narrowly missing the rusted candelabra.

(I remember the last time I stubbed my poor toe on that thing! It's supposed to be set up on a fancy-schmancy table or something, but it lost its stand and sits on the dusty floor instead. That's why I was able to stub my toe on it...Anyway, I digress...)

"_Seven_?" He states. "Yup! See ya there!" says I, giving him a totally awkward fist-bump before skipping up the stairs.

* * *

><p>Dum-dum-dum-duummmmmmmmmmm...lalalalaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa He Is Here! Mr. Spike-McSpikey-Sir-Spikers-Ye-Chocohead! Cloud, my good friend and ever-optimistic pal!<p>

And his lady love Tifa of the Gorgeous Brown Eyes and the Fist of Iron—no, make that titanium. Whatever—it packs a punch. Has sent many a monster a'flying home to weep in its cave.

And CID...accompanied by a cacophony of...potty mouth, to say the least. I love that guy. He's taught me the most colorful expressions I know, such as—

"YUFFIIIIIIIIIE!" a streak of purple slams against my ninja legs and whoops!-the ninja tumbles... It's Marlene-of-the-Bright-Eyes-and-mischievous-grin. "Hi, Marlene!" I whoop.

Denzel trots in, dragging Barrett. Muscle-Man has a grin wrapped around his face. Wait! I so need to tell him and Cid about the time my own face wrapped itself around itself! Oh wait—that was my smile. Face, smile, same dif.

"Oi, lassie! Yer plaid's a'missin'!" Cait Sith. I stick my tongue out at him. "This is _ninja_ gear, Kitty!"

He flicks my nose and I aim a punch his way when—

"YUFFIIIIIIIIIE!" (Is it me or will this keep happening to me throughout the night?) This time it's Nanaki. It seems that I left the coffee perk-you-later on for the last hour and the carafe is stained a permanent brown? Oops.

So, in preparation for the festivities, Nanaki, once he got himself a decent cup o' coffee and Cid, a decent cup of tea, got busy shelling freshly-picked peas since Tifa does the whole fresh-and-natural thing. I got to help out, but when a few peas _accidentally _popped out of their pods and fired towards Cid, I got sent to decorate the windows with that special shop-window paint.

Cloud wasn't so pleased with the painted pictures of Sephiroth's guts flying every which way and Yazoo being blown head over shiny heels by a red-headed Reno's BOOM-KERSPLAT of a bomb rig.

So he made me wash the paintings off of the window and paint "respectable, clean pictures." Boring.

So I drew flowers and hearts and green fields and a sunrise. And then Cid complained about the daisies. Can't win for losin'!

Finally, at nine fifty-nine and forty-seven seconds, we got the party started. (It took a wee bit longer than we expected to hang up the streamers.)

"YUFFIIIIIIIIIE!" Again. But it's Shera's beaming face. She has her arm around Cid-her-hubby and they're high-fiving the team members on a job well done. Yeah, saving the world isn't _that_ difficult!

* * *

><p><strong>10:58 PM<strong>

Ding-dooong. Reeve's here. "Miss Kisaragi," he nods. Bleh. _Yuffie_, pal.

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock—KNOCK-KNOCK! Rufus is here. "Miss Yuffie Kisaragi," he waves slightly. _Yuffie_, Mister Shinra.

*silence* Rude is here. "..." Fine by me.

Tap-tap-tap. ElenaandTseng are here. "Hiya, Yuffie!" they chime in at the same time. I high-five them both. Good Turks. (Did I just make a joke?)

"Wassuuupp?" And, Reno's here too. "Hey, Babe! Drink's on me this once, yo!" Erm. A-hem.

And then Tifa rescues me from Sir-Knight-In-Shining-Armor-With-A-Flaming-Red-Helmet-haha with a motherly "Now you know that you're not allowed to drink yet, Yuffie." *scolding finger-wag*

Grrr. "I'll have a Shirley Temple, then," I grimace. The maraschino cherry's worth it, though.

Clutching my bubbling non-alcoholic drink in jittery paws, I bounce around the room listening to my friends relive their battle moves and their close shaves and their new collections of scrapes. The Seventh Heaven fireplace is blazing by now, the high-pitched-beeping clock announces eleven-o'-clock with a "ding," and Reno and Rude are retelling the story of the remnants' explosive exit.

Aww, how sweet! Tifa and Cloud are holding hands and gazing out the window! They make such a cute couple. Now, what say we get McSpikers to _admit_ it, shall we? Hehe.

**2:00 AM**

Marlene and Denzel were sent to bed a while ago, so the adults have been partying in a festive, companionable way. As in, making use of the bar's supplies. Though, errr, Reno is..._singing_ while dancing on top of the bar. Wow. Cid and Barrett are near-'bout passed out. (I now have six or seven awesome pictures of them snoozing and drooling and snoring—good blackmail material!)

**2:01 AM**

Then, dun-dun-duuuuun, the door opened. And a shadowy figure, hooded and cloaked, strides in. It's VINNIE! And he's smiling faintly. Good for him!

"Hi, Vince!" He nods. "Can I get ya a drink of some sort?" I chirp. (I have a habit of chirping around him. Well duh, he makes my vocal chords tighten up with nervousness, though I am NEVER going to admit _that_ to him!) He nods again. "Whaddya want, then?" I inquire. Festive guy, isn't he?

"Water." Did you hear that? H-TOO-OH? Alrighty then.

We sip our respective waters and Shirley Temples together, watching the rest of the members of AVALANCHE toast to the future. My heavy lids rise a bit when I hear Barrett's deep voice rise above the din. "Here's to the future!"

Cid: "Here's to the Seventh Heaven!"

Barrett: "Here's to Tifa and Spike!" Blush-blush on Spike's part. Tifa is smiling.

Cid: "Here's to freedom! Here's to life!"

Barrett: "Here's to The Shera!"

Cid: "Here's to Shera!" (Shera's smiling now.)

Cait Sith: "Here's to Yuffie, the _graceful_ ninja we have grown to love!" I glare at him and flick his nose.

Reno: (hehe you know this is gonna be good) "Here's to terrific barmaids—" At this point, Cloud stuffs an egg roll into the Turk's mouth. I keel over with laughter at Reno's egg-mouth expression.

"Here's to our pals the Turks!" I sing out. Reno, Tseng, Elena, Rufus, and Rude all drink to that.

Ah, family. And Vincent's looking at the patch of wall behind my head. After all, it _is_ a remarkable specimen of plaster and paint. All smooth and well-layered. And with all of the family and fun and excitement of the evening—nope, morning now—I've been way too busy to notice that he really admires the wall right behind my head, right?

I look back at him to where he's perched on a barstool. I wave and smile at him and he blushes. Wait—Vincent blushed? This could turn out to be interesting. Oopsy-daisy now, Tifa's calling. Group photo. The Single White Rose of Wutai's leaving momentarily to get her shurikan, now, ok? Can't have a totally-awesome group photo of the people who saved the world without them totin' along with world-saving weapons, can we?

Vinny's glance follows my back. I must have confetti stuck to my shoulders. Right. Yep. *chuckle*


	6. Regrets

"Turks don't regret!" I snapped, my vision blurry. _Liar. _

"Yes, dammit, they _do. _If they didn't, they'd have no flippin' reason to saunter into bars at killer hours of the morning and slam down enough to souse a few." Cid's tone was that of annoyance; its pitch was rough and high, stressed.

"They're not supposed to feel pain. We're the fastest of the fastest, strongest and smartest of them all, and we get our jobs done so that ordinary people can live in _peace_, blessed peace.

We pay with our souls so that normal people can live. And what do we get?

Strain, pain, blasted little gain, and a hangover after each heart-wrenching mission that leaves us with acid in our heart and ice in our veins."

I slammed down another shot, irritated that I was explaining myself to the man who once stabbed his spear through my spleen—all in the name of freedom.

Cid's angry eyes softened. "So you _do _regret," he murmured, flicking grime from his work pants.

"_Yes_," I allowed, my voice deep with self-hatred and resentment. "_You_ don't earn your daily bread by paying with innocent lives! People die because of other stupid people's hatred.

Crime runs rampant wherever city life thrives—there's always the poor person who hates you for killing their mum, not knowing that their mum was right between a renegade gunner and a rigged grenade!"

My voice was tight with emotion of my own. In my swirling pool of liqueur, I saw my face, the face of a man who dares to kill and break and maim and hurt and lie, the haunted visage of a man who takes empty pride in his physical strength and raw power. Castles of air, all of his hopes.

Shinra, oh Shinra. Blasted goddess that power-craving mortals worship with offerings of sweat, yes, and always blood.

Uncaring goddess, a power-machine that promises little but uncertainty of future and guilt with the weight of a five-hundred-ton wall of granite.

Ah, well, I smirk to myself. Turks kill that others may live. Turks live that others may learn to kill. No one retires from the Turks unless irreparable damage is dealt to their body or they manage to relocate their soul before insanity's grip tightens too strongly. Those who retire suffer nightmares.

I would know. My mission-comrades, Adabran, "Sing" and Fera, "Slash," retired eight months ago.

In their dreams, they suffer from the shrieking faces of their victims and the explosions of hidden cave entrances, the click of triggers, the snap of wrists, the wrench of muscles and bones, the drip and pool of scarlet life...

Fera's pretty eyes lost their innocence after two years of intense training. She killed her first victim at the young age of seventeen. Her eyes are now deep and impenetrable.

Adraban's eyes are as empty as his sister's eyes are hard. He swears never to kill again, but the swish of his dagger echoes in his ears when his dreams approach.

No, I want to die in combat, away from the silence of the night, away from my regrets and fears.

I wish that I could have been friends with the members of AVALANCHE. They are good people. Power and fame haven't corrupted their hearts.

However, that cannot be. We are separated by the chasm of our professions.

I slam down another shot of amber and my eyes rise to meet blue. Cid nods. "I believe you," he solemnly whispers.

Good. In public, Turks don't have a heart. And when alone, they often forget that they have one.

And when the smoke has whispered once again from the angry barrels, no one remembers that a Turk's chest is not hollow.


	7. Spent

Reno slammed down a shot. Rude sipped at his own shot, nursing it with a brooding expression. Elena gulped hers; this day had been frustrating and tiring.

Not only had they failed to detain their suspect long enough to extract answers, their suspect's angry girlfriend had rushed out of a dingy apartment and nearly brained Rude.

It was, as they realized, difficult to go about their Turk business when half of the neighborhood was alerted to the presence of "scary gangster mob men."

Elena sighed and blew a wisp of fine hair away from her eyes. Reno ordered a glass of whiskey. The stuff was stunning; Elena preferred milder concoctions. She finished her drink in silence, her heavy lids sinking downwards.

"Hi!" a cheery, imperturbable voice sounded right behind and above Rude's head. Groan. Yuffie.

"Didn't know that you all were lounging around _here_, of all places! Tifa let you in, I guess! Hey—have you seen my new materia? It's sparkly and deep blue-green, well, not really green, as in, pure green, but it has green highlights, and slight aqua hints in the sunlight, but it's too dark in the bar so you'd have to hold it up to the light once you found it...(much talking and gesticulating with a new dialect of sign language)...Barret's got himself overalls...(a shriek as she tripped over her feet)...(more chatter)...And hey, yo, as Mr. Ponytail would say, wa-hey? What's that? Yo, Tifa! You said I could eat the batter!...(sounds of batter dripping)...so are you all in on it?"

The exhausted Turks looked at her through half-lidded eyes. "Erm, _no_," Reno drawled. Yuffie pulled him out of the chair, babbling about Vincent's long hair and scissors...

Tseng and the other crept out of the bar after sliding some coins onto the counter towards Tifa. Reno half stood, half hung in Yuffie's grip as she dragged him out the back door.

"You and Vinnie Buddy have a lot in common—y'all don't comb yer hair much or get it trimmed. How on earth does it get so wavy and pretty?"

Groan, again. Yuffie. Turks have more important matters about them than that of combing their heads, yo.


End file.
